Golden
by Tucagwathiel
Summary: He was known as the Golden Boy.


Summary: He was known as the Golden Boy.

Warning(s): None.

Disclaimer: As always, everything belongs to JK Rowling and I, a poor writer in comparison, merely dabble with her world.

Author's Note: So, yeah, this might not be the best and it might not be the longest nor perfect, but it is mine and, for that, I hope you enjoy it!

 **Golden**

He was known as the Golden Boy.

Or maybe not so much as golden but brass. The aged kind that was tarnished and worn, and had some dents and dings in it.

But he was sure that at _some_ point in time, before this hunt for the horcruxes and, really, before his fourth year, he had been golden.

He may not have been saintly as Malfoy tended to suggest, but he had been golden.

But then...somewhere along the way, he had started losing his innocence, his humanity. His obstacles started getting harder, he started getting wounded more, and he experienced someone dying in front of him for the first time, and he started to just...give up. It was obvious that he was the only one who seemed to even remember Cedric as he glanced through newspaper headings of the same old, same old that summer; proclaiming him to be a pathological liar and suffering from an incurable case of insanity.

And his once flawless gold started to become tarnished and aged like that of a weary statue.

He had almost given up on the wizarding world then. If they didn't want to acknowledge what has already happened, then they could deal with the consequences themselves.

But then...

He couldn't leave the muggle world to whatever fate Voldemort deemed to wrought upon them.

And so he continued.

To fight, to rebel, to go against ministry officials both in school and in government building.

And then...his gold became brass.

Sirius had died, and, with it, his last chance for a real family with someone who loved enough to accept the title of godfather willingly.

Was he just not destined for love?

Sixth year, it felt like a daze for the most part as he spent the time in anger; at Sirius, at Professor Lupin, at Dumbledore...and at himself, too.

There was Slughorn's club that he had somehow gotten roped into, but he hardly paid much attention to it at all, and he had only drifted out of his anger to notice...Malfoy.

Malfoy was scheming something, though no one believed him- whether it was from last year or his anger and numbness towards seemingly everyone, he couldn't decide.

All Harry could feel was a sense of deadness inside with Dumbledore's death, and the question of how things had just gone so...wrong since he entered the wizarding world.

Before, he was stuck with Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon and in a small cupboard, sure, but...he had the chance of escaping that cupboard that seemingly safe cupboard for freedom by reaching adulthood had the wizarding world not interfered. Here, he had simply exchanged the cage that was the cupboard for a larger cage masquerading in the disguise of freedom; only this larger cage came with chains and shackles that tied him to adventures and a destiny that he did not want.

Much like the dragon they rode out of the bank on.

Harry had often found himself wondering what it was like; to fly away, carefree and happy.

To not have to deal with worrying about whether he was going to wake up the next morning or not.

And that moment, in Malfoy's manor faced by Bellatrix and the Malfoys, Harry truly did not think that they would come out alive by the end of it.

But they had, with Dobby's help, and, with that help, had come another death.

And Harry's brass started to get a little scratched.

He had buried Dobby by the shore with his bare hands- it didn't seem right to use anything but his hands after Dobby's sacrifice. He imagined that, in all the world, the ocean was the place where one experienced the most freedom when on land, and he believed that Dobby would have been the happiest there.

Then came the Final Battle.

It is said that a person becomes more aware, more hyper-intuitive when in moments like these, but Harry could only find that while that was perhaps true for others, it was not true for him.

Hiding, ducking, returning fire while dodging curses left and right, it was like the battle did not even register for him; stuck on autopilot as he was. Then again, when one has had the battles that he has had, this was just another notch on a belt of other notches he has dealt with.

After all, what was a death eater compared to a basilisk?

Then came the news; The Revelation.

And Harry's brass got a little more scratched, a little more dinged.

Waking up from King's Cross was an experience all of its own, as senses once deadened came back seemingly sharper than ever if only because he came from none to having them all suddenly once more.

Though the curse did not kill him, Harry thinks that he is already dead inside as he stares down at Voldemort's body as it begins to crack and crumble away. Around him, cheers of survivors rise as Voldemort is finally defeated once and for all, but where they can see life and freedom, Harry can only see death and loss.

Watching as the dead toll rose greater in numbers, Harry could not muster the strength to feel much of anything even as friends, family, classmates were put to rest. What was one more death upon the burden he already bore for so long?

By the time the dead were all accounted for and laid to rest and rebuilding had been well under way, Harry's once brilliantly shining gold had turned to dark, tarnished brass; blackened with scratches and dings littering the well-worn metal telling of the life Harry led.

So… no.

He was not a golden boy by the end of it all, nor would he ever be one again. But his nicks and dings and scratches told of a life that lived. It might not have been pretty and it might not have been one that anyone else would have wanted much less Harry himself, but it was his.

And that, perhaps, was what made it worth more than anything.


End file.
